The Brushstrokes

It’s all a dream:

The lowest moments

And the greatest,

The imperfections

And the changes

Made by the mind

To what was by the mind,




It doesn’t hurt, really,

When in my nightmares

Hungry demons

Gnaw at my bones

And rip to pieces

The magic heart

That every morning

I find unfailingly

Beating in my chest;


It is all a mirage:

This face, this body,

Their existence

And their ultimate


There’s nothing wrong

With pieces breaking,

Cracks manifesting

On the unforgiving skin


Painted over


In thick colors

Of fear

Named and signed

By the artist,

‘Me’ –

Both as a sentence

And a key


To freedom

2 thoughts on “The Brushstrokes

    1. Thank you for reading! I wrote the poem about the mind creating life and destroying it, over and over again; about each life being one of many, like a painting in a gallery.

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